


You’re the origin of love (Thank God that you found me)

by Miele_Petite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, And the miracle resurrection of some absinthe, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Fanart, Female Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, I'd like to report the murder of a half bottle of very good wine, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, Only one whisky was harmed in the making of the first chapter, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-07-19 19:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: Aziraphale takes Crowley up on his invitation to go back to his flat. They both have a lot to think about as they come to terms with the consequences of averting the Apolcalypse. And, Azirphale decides, some things that need to be said. Once that cat is out of the bag, though, what will they mean to each other? And what will they do to each other? ;)A comedic slow burn for your enjoyment :)INCLUDES ILLUSTRATION





	1. (I look to the time with you) To keep me awake and alive

Aziraphale rocks the whisky gently around his glass, urging it to open up. He knows that patience would reward him with all of the qualities that this particularly skilled distiller had intended, but he is feeling less patient than usual, given the circumstances. The barrel-browned liquid laps against the side of the glass, reminding him of sea surge crashing foam against a rocky shore. It reminds him that he is flotsam now, wreckage from an apocalyptic battle that wasn't. Or, is he technically _jetsam_ , he wonders, flung from heaving decks on purpose for the needs of the ineffable plan? He sips. Best not to follow that line of inquiry- he has enough to contemplate for one day. 

So this is where self-preservation ultimately got them, he muses. The ridiculous irony of saving everything aside from themselves, he decided, could not have been lost on the demon who sat next to him, but Crowley had so far shown the good grace not to resort to his usual sarcasm. Aziraphale was far too earnest to see the humour in the situation. Too scarred perhaps, from having seen before what such sacrifices had cost humanity, for the benefit of _his side_. A side he didn't belong to now, he reflects. He feels a pang at that, but it's not regret. He's lost a little bit of himself, and isn't sure what he's gained, entirely. And yet he does know he's traded one clarity for another. He made a choice and there's no escaping it, no denying his refusal to take up arms for the glorious cause of heaven. No denying that he'd gripped his once God-given weapon and instead of using it to prove heaven's righteousness, had reached for the one thing he could rely on, and had plucked at the strings of Crowley's heart, his steadfast friendship, for help.  
  
He looks down at his body (essentially the same, but newly gifted to him by the anti-Christ) and wonders that these too soft hands, this too soft heart _did all that_. And he'd do it again, he knows, with a sudden lucidity. Despite the consequences, it felt right. It nestles in nicely as a new absolute in his creed, although he might well have damned himself. He's suddenly acutely grateful for the tumbler of scotch in his grip, and the bottle of red shared between them on the bus stop bench earlier, for dulling his anxious nerves. He can feel though, that his knee is shaking slightly. Only a few inches away, Crowley's is stock-still. 

They'd traded the bench for a bus seat, and now the bus for a sofa newly manifested in Crowley's flat, largely in silence. Crowley is exhausted. It's been a real hell of a day, he's been through more fire than even a demon cares for, and he knows it's not over yet. He's practicing noble silence, giving the angel space to process everything that's just happened. In truth he's worried that if he says anything else Aziraphale will change his mind about coming back here. He can't bear that emptiness again so soon.  
  
But, his heart clenches, he _did_ come back here. It had taken the demon's soft, wine-slurred words to finally convince him. The very same words that the angel had refused to hear before, in the bandstand, when Crowley had shouted them. He winces, hearing it play back in his head. What an arse he'd been, frustrated and shaking, and really wanting to shout _I can't lose you_.  
  
Next to him, Aziraphale runs a hand through his cirrus-down hair and presses his fingertips to his forehead. He didn't _have a side anymore_. He'd known it already, in truth. Knew it as soon as he'd pleaded with Crowley, gladius in hand, to _come up with something_. No, he'd known it before that, when the inferno of the Bentley had pulled up at the airfield and his dis-corporated heart had fluttered in Madame Tracey's chest. He knew it, he admits, in the bandstand, just before he'd had to cleave white-hot through the tender blossom of his own hope, using the merciless propriety of six thousand years of obedience that he _knew_ was right, but _felt_ so wrong. He cringes at that. He had never imagined himself capable of such cruelty, even for the purpose of obeying a higher authority. (He was definitely no Sandalphon, with his Sodom and Gomorrah). All that hurt he'd flung at Crowley and yet- he feels hope germinating again- the demon had still come back, again, and still again. The angel had spoken freely of forgiveness like it was his right, and it was, as a celestial being after all, but he knows in his heart which of them had done all of the apologizing. And he knows it is the one of them that had been owed it instead. 

But now Aziraphale had gone and done it, had defied heaven, and neither of them would possibly be forgiven, not after what they’d done. No, he had cast his lot with this wily adversary, this foul fiend, his natural enemy... his closest companion, sometime savior, his _best friend_. On the other side of the couch, Crowley shifted and cleared his throat. The angel's gaze wanders over at the sound and he contemplates the presence sprawled sinuously beside him. He is all of those things, is everything. More than everything, maybe, the angel thinks, feeling a stab in his throat. He'd opened the proverbial box and he couldn't very well stuff it all back in now, could he? Heaven knew it, hell knew it, and so the thing he'd feared for centuries was actually happening. It wouldn't be long before punishment was doled out. Justice must be swift in cases like this, and rightly so. He was well and truly fucked. They both were.

Almost as if sharing the same thought, Crowley turns his dark lenses to meet the angel's eyes and smiles, wearily. There is a new day dawning for humanity in a few hours, but probably not for them. The demon raises his glass in salutaria with the sardonic ease of someone who was already damned, and might as well come to terms with being destroyed. With a sigh, Aziraphale closes the toast with his glass. He meets the demon's smile with his own, knowing there is no one else he'd rather see out existence with, but the lines around his eyes reveal more pain than cheer. They drink and their smiles slip down again, as each go back to their thinking.

Crowley closes his eyes and focuses on the searing of the whisky trailing down his throat, its numbing fire gathering against the churning in his stomach. He hadn't felt this fragile since just after the fall. The sensation comes screaming back at the thought, then- the memory of his fingers, tender-burned, scraping through dust and feathers sticky-wet with tears, writhing in the dirt- He tries to shake the feeling off with another gulp of whisky, but the train of thought chugs on. After his descent, he'd had to feel himself out, learn slowly what pieces of himself he could keep and what was changed forever. Azirphale must be working that same puzzle now, he knows, but he has far less time to do it. Against his demonic instincts, Crowley hopes it won’t hurt the angel as badly as it had himself. 

If they didn't figure out Agnes' instructions and come up with a plan, then this would be the very last of their time together, he thinks. He clings desperately to the mercy of their physical proximity in this moment. It could be enough, Crowley reasons like a man at the gallows, to ease for him the ache of goodbye. Selfishly though, he finds himself wanting to fill this silence with words that need saying, words he'd said in a million other ways already, just not in the way they should be said. So that there was no confusion, no grey area. Words he'd sworn to himself that he'd finally scrape together in the Bentley, if the angel had just gotten into the car. If only he got in the damn car!

He downs the rest of his scotch and sucks air through his teeth as it burns. _We can't give up now_. Of course, Alpha Centauri wasn't really an option. Their respective superiors would be looking for them soon. It didn't really matter where in the infinite universe they tried to hide, their essences would always give them away to omniscient agencies, who could see everywhere at once, when they wanted to find something. So they couldn't run. It isn't _where_ they are that's the problem, Crowley thinks. He tugs off his dark glasses, in an unconscious effort to see clearly, figuratively, and leans forward in concentration. It isn’t the _where,_ but the _who_ they are, that matters. They need different _faces_ , as Agnes' prophecy had implied...

Aziraphale squirms next to him, wracked with guilt. He'd been a terrible friend, and taking that on his conscience to his destruction seems like a terrible end to this six thousand year old story. He looks at the demon, now slumped forward, so quiet and looking to the angel in him like a very hurt soul in need of healing. He wants to pull him into an embrace, to beg his forgiveness, to offer every ounce of ethereal balm he still has at his disposal, but it would be too much. Instead, he lays a gentle hand on Crowley's shoulder. The demon turns and ochre gold eyes flash back at him, brows furrowed but with more radiance than the angel was expecting, a spark that catches him off guard. Not hurt, something else, some feeling he can't quite name. He is reminded suddenly of a night in his bookshop, eleven short years ago, when those same eyes had ridiculously suggested they influence the anti-Christ together.

Oh, those eyes always did something to him, but now they were doing very _dangerous_ things, and for a millisecond he considers rather unangelically putting aside his natural restraint, and making a very bold advance indeed. But that would be ridiculous. Incongruous. He looks down at the whisky, as if asking it for permission. He'd already permitted himself more things in his time on earth than he ever should have. Oh, but still so many things would go undone, he mourns. But at least, he decides, they wouldn't go unsaid. Not this time.

Aziraphale meets Crowley's eyes again, the intensity of that connection while preparing to spill out the contents of his heart almost unbearable. He'd been very brave of late, certainly, but courage isn't a reflex to a being who spent so much time not questioning the way things were ordered. 

"Ahem", he starts, as if it were an announcement, and immediately regrets that, as the demon's brows shoot up, expectantly. The force of Crowley's full attention on his face suddenly makes his collar feel too tight. This embarrassment would be excruciating- but like giving away the flaming sword in Eden, or rushing back, discorporated, into the world to set things right, the best and most heartfelt of his gestures came when he just went for it. So he takes a deep breath.

"There's something I have to tell you," he starts again. "I mean, it goes without saying-" he fumbles.

There is a slight flicker in the demon's eyes. Annoyance? If it goes without saying, _why are you saying it_ , maybe? Panic rises, and Aziraphale finds the words bolting out of his mouth like a spooked horse.

"--That you are the only one who has ever meant anything to me. And when I thought I'd lose you, well... well, I just couldn't imagine how I would go on. Because you see," he swallowed thickly, "I love you with all of my being. I- I mean, I love everyone as an angel, of course, but..." 

Crowley's eyes narrow, and Aziraphale's panic rises even higher if that is possible, blood whooshing in his ears. He feels dizzy. "What I mean," he squeaks, "Is that I'm _in love_ with you." 

The demon's expression stays inscrutable. Crowley stares at him, unblinking. He'd stopped breathing too, in fact, but the angel is so flustered he doesn't notice. 

"Far more than is reasonable, I think, and more than I could admit to myself before." He tries to explain, "But you have to understand, I was so scared, you know, to feel this... you see, my side wouldn't..." 

The demon frowns slightly at this, sending the angel's heart dropping. But by the miracle of some still attained grace he'd gotten this far, and so he squeezes his eyes shut against the mortification of it all and plows on. 

"I am so sorry I never told you before. I just couldn't!" He wails. "Oh, I was so afraid you'd hate me for it, scared of falling of course, but... but now I'm more afraid of you not knowing. Before the... _end_..." 

He opens his eyes again then, urgent and pleading, "And I know I've been horrid, and I'm sorry, and, and I know you couldn't possibly love me, but I love you, and- there, I've said it." He wants so desperately to grasp Crowley's hands in his then, but he doesn't dare and so wrings his own around the whisky glass instead- fear, guilt, and the terror of love without boundaries filling him to trembling.

Crowley fights, and amazingly, wins his battle to keep his countenance smooth. There's a slight flare of his nostrils as he starts breathing again with a sharp intake of air. The corner of his mouth twitches. He wants to smile, but isn't made that way, and what comes out finally is through gritted teeth, like a growl. "Shut up, angel."

And suddenly, the stars go out for Aziraphale. His demeanor crumbles, and he feels his heart following suit, his eyes desperate and wild. 

"Oh," he breathes.

But in the next breath, Crowley has bridged the space between them, his empty tumbler and sunglasses clattering to the floor. His hands grip the angel's shoulders tightly, his lips crush in a heated fervor against the angel's mouth. A probing tongue sends shocks down Aziraphale's body, and the flavour of whisky, somehow mixed with the taste of heat, and of the universe in its entirety, comes flooding in. It is the single best thing he's ever tasted on earth or in heaven, and that is saying a lot, really. He marvels too, at how such a sensation could be felt everywhere, at once. "Oh," he thinks, and his glass drops and rolls away, whisky pooling. 

The pressure eases as the demon pulls back, a moment later, to inspect his work- an old demonic habit, but in this case he can't resist. The angel's chest is heaving with unnecessary breaths and twin spreading roses blossom on either cheek. He looks deliciously undone. His meisterstück, Crowley decides.

"Oh," the angel breathes again, "So you..." he trails off, unable to say what he hopes.

"Are you really that daft?" Crowley says, with a wry smile, "Come on, you _had_ to know. I honestly don't know how else I could've shown you!" His small smile breaks into a larger one, full of demon wiles. "Of course I love you, you bastard."

"Well!" the angel splutters, trying then and failing to smooth both an imaginary wrinkle in his waistcoat and his dignity. "How wicked you are sometimes!" Old habits do die hard.

"Mmmhmm," agrees Crowley, "But you love it."

Aziraphale makes to protest again, but finds the kiss resumed and decides that the only reasonable thing to do in this situation is to surrender and _lean into it_ , as it were. His eyes are closed, but he is seeing stars. Possibly whole galaxies. As a last thing to do on this planet, he thinks, this isn't too bad.

Crowley is starting to think, as the angel presses back into him, that his control of this demonstration may be slipping, but for the moment he couldn't care less. His heart hammers under soft splayed hands, and he can see why humans might like this so much. But there's something past this simple sensation of touch. The angel tastes of forgiveness and grace, of clean white redemption, and he's so parched but somehow drowning at the same time. He dives in deeper, feeling their essences mix and for a moment, until he rights himself, forgets which body he's actually in. 

After a few minutes of messy but ambrosial lip-locking, and some questing fingers for good measure, Crowley pulls back, flushed. The angel, who looks up at him with his hair now a disheveled mess, and his bow tie inexplicably untied, appears set to make an even bigger protest of him stopping.

"As much as I would love to carry on, angel," the demon murmurs, "We really haven't got time for this right now. Listen, I think I have a plan." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic, please be gentle! I hope to do more though, so please make some noise and let me know how I'm doing so far!
> 
> Many thanks to my beta testers for their support!
> 
> All of my illustrations can be seen on the Miel Petite Tumblr blog


	2. If I hadn't seen such riches (I could live with being poor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After escaping their executions, Aziraphale and Crowley have some breathing space from Heaven and Hell.

The waiter at the Ritz doesn't ask what they're celebrating as he pours more Moët into the men's glasses, but it's obvious that they're marking some occasion. He tops them up, then turns to attend to other clientele, hoping that whatever their good fortune is, it will lead to a generous tip. 

Aziraphale waits and watches for the lush foam to subside a bit before pulling the glass towards himself by the base. He sighs contentedly. He feels as if he's been hollowed out completely and then filled to brimming with bliss by the events of the last few days. Still aglow with Crowley's reciprocation of his affections the previous night, and wearing the natural swagger that came with the demon's body, he'd put on quite a show for the hosts of hell. He is pretty pleased with himself for that, and also reveling in still being alive, so is now happily wringing all of the good he can out of the present moment. He takes a languid sip, giddy bubbles tingling his palate, carrying all of the flavours of a Parisian bakery- a little brioche, chocolate and hint of espresso. The '61 was definitely a masterful vintage- fit for a queen. In his mind he gives thanks to that clever Benedictine for perfecting this. Of all the monks' works, he thinks, this might be his favourite. He looks over at Crowley, whose smile, for once, is as relaxed as his long lean body.

"I like to think," Aziraphale says, "none of this of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit, a good person."

The demon, freed for the moment from his ties to hell, doesn't feel the need to deny it. Anyway, he thinks, he's just been to heaven and knows there's more _good_ sitting at this table than he encountered up there. Still, he knows a jab from the angel when he hears one, and responds in kind. It's their thing.

"Or if you weren't, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."

Aziraphale's lips press out a sheepish smile. His eyelashes flutter as he thinks of Crowley calling him that last night, and his cheeks, already pink from the champagne, go a little more so.

"Cheers!" the demon says, holding out his glass, "To the world."

"To the world." The angel agrees, beaming, Crowley thinks, with more wattage than the Picadilly Circus billboard. 

Seeing all that joy lights something up in him too, and as they clink glasses he decides he might think the world is even more worth saving today. Knowing he means something to this ridiculous creature makes everything a little better. He knows he can't let his guard down forever- true optimism is for suckers- but he is feeling more content than he's ever managed before on this planet.

Aziraphale places a palm on the table between them and leans in, his firmament eyes sparkling. "We should go on holiday!" he chimes. "I rather think we've earned it."

"Mmmmmmm," the demon hums, "What did you have in mind?"

The two discuss the possibilities as they sip their champagne into the afternoon, reminiscing along the way about favourite spots they'd enjoyed on previous adventures. Aziraphale at one point plauds the merits of winding down on the Cornish coast, while Crowley makes a very alluring case of Santorini for truly languorous lounging. They make no plans except to discuss it further, but the demon reflects it is nice enough to contemplate that they could _go off together_ now under much more pleasant circumstances.

"I imagine," he says leaning forward with his chin on his knuckles, "That you'd want to check on the bookshop first, though."

"Oh yes!" the angel exclaims, "Good lord, I was having such fun I nearly forgot."

"I can walk you over, if you like." Crowley says, as they leave the restaurant.

"That would be lovely." Azirphale chirps, following.

* * *

They stand for several moments outside the shop looking up at it, neither able to say much. For Azirphale, it represents the core of his being, everything he'd held dear, and to have it back was such an intense innervation he could hardly hold it in his heart. Crowley, who'd been inside it when it was raging with fire, thinking he'd lost his best friend, feels very similarly about the fussy angel to his right. 

The pair step inside with reverence, the closing door behind them cutting off the bustle of the Soho streets. Aziraphale strides into the main room, surveying the shelves and haphazard stacks with dewy eyes. The demon settles in beside him. 

"See," he says softly, "Everything is here."

The angel nods silently, then reaching out, searches for Crowley's hand and laces their fingers together. 

" _Yes_ ," he whispers hoarsely, " _Everything_."

Crowley steps in front of him then, his free hand snaking through the snow silk hair at the nape of the angel's neck. Last night's pace, heavy and tumbling, had been set by a rush of need to satisfy their story. Now he could savor this moment. Now, with the weight of heaven and hell off their shoulders his heart feels light and patient, but no less full.

"It's really nice to have you back."

Aziraphale's eyes go sunny warm through the glaze of tears, bright, like a rainbow. A flash of sweet smile and then he closes them, turning his face into Crowley's wrist and nuzzling it slightly. 

"It's nice to be back." he says, with a light laugh that tickles the demon's palm. "You know, I've been from heaven to hell and back in the past couple of days, and to be honest all these exertions have made me want nothing more than a quiet night in."

Crowley laughs. "You? Do you even know how many times I've been on fire recently?"

Aziraphale leans back into the nearest of the bookshelves, pulling the demon with him. "What about once more?" he asks smugly, quite pleased with both his pun and the look of shock on Crowley's face. "Stay?"

" _Hells bells_ , angel!" Crowley hisses, his patience seemingly evaporated. "I think you've gotten better at my job than I was." 

They spend several minutes pressed together then, feeling the solidity of each other- the angel preening under Crowley's well placed ministrations, and the demon in grave danger of losing his cool. Suddenly Aziraphale grasps the demon's chin and pushes him back gently.

"I think we should make ourselves a little more comfortable now, dear. As much as I appreciate Herodotus," he says, stepping aside to reveal the shelf packed with histories, "it's not doing my spine any favours right now, I'm afraid."

Crowley makes an attempt at speech but fails and instead obediently follows the angel to the couch. Just as he is about to wrap his arms around him, though, Aziraphale pops up.

"Do you know, I might have a bit of your favourite Latour left- you know the one. Very fond memories of that year, yes..." his voice drifts off as he heads to the back room.

"Yeah," Crowley agrees, cooled off enough to speak, "very good year." He doesn't really know if by that he means the vintage, or the little demonic miracle he'd managed to pull off then, while frying on consecrated ground. Shit, he grins to himself, maybe I _was_ a flash bastard.

When the angel returns with the bottle and two glasses, Crowley has dispensed with his jacket and sunglasses and is sunk into the sofa, snakelike. He has loosened his tie, and by the look of things, most of his joints. He reminds Aziraphale of a viper ready to strike, those amber eyes (that one remembers _did_ direct the first temptation) make him feel a little too warm. 

"Oh yes, of course, if we're making ourselves more comfortable," the angel says, shrugging off his coat and floating over to hang it neatly on the coat rack by the front door. "It can get so stuffy in here."

Crowley is leaning on one elbow, his hand to his face. He has his chin tucked down and his eyes, which follow the angel as he moves, are smoldering hungrily. Aziraphale feels suddenly as if he's just done a striptease. He covers his deepening blush by looking away and making a show of carefully opening the wine.

"Now, we'll want to let this breathe a bit," he says as he pours, well manicured hands shaking ever so slightly, "but I think that you'll find it has developed some excellent character."

Crowley leans back dramatically and moans. "I swear to go-... to sa-... to _someone_ , angel, if I wanted to be tortured I'd have stayed in hell. If you don't sit down right now and let me hold you, I might dog-ear every page in here."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Foul fiend." Aziraphale pouts, but slides down onto the sofa. 

He looks across then with dreamy eyes and rosebud lips half parted, and Crowley briefly thinks that he might need to pump the brakes on this before he really _is_ incinerated, but it's too late because now those soft lips are on his neck, his ear. 

"Oh love," the angel whispers, so low that Crowley shivers, can feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He knows for sure that if this were a battle between good and evil he's losing this round badly, but he's beyond caring. The kisses pressed to his cheek, his mouth, are so soft, and Aziraphale is so soft too, it makes him ache.

The angel stops and looks at Crowley. _His_ Crowley now. He's beautiful. The blood dark thatch of his hair, his cut-glass cheekbones, the soft curling embouchure of his bottom lip... He wonders for a second how She could have thrown down something so beautiful, but stops himself. Whatever Her plan, it has led them to this moment, so he gives praise, quietly, privately, presses prayers into this skin, a touch of spirit on the body.

The demon is sinking farther into the couch so the angel is nearly on top of him. He can feel his toes curling in his shoes. He wishes he'd kicked them off. Wishes, really, he could take everything off. It's all too tight. He’s used to feeling like this, alone, with just his imagination, not in real life with Aziraphale. Relief is an easy thing when you’re alone, he thinks, but probably way too much to ask for, this soon… His mind is working as best it can while his body strains to be in charge. _Could_ I ask? he wonders. No. _Maybe_? No. How much more can I reasonably take? Should I excuse myself? 

The angel continues his worship, slowly down to the hollow of the other's neck, to the bit of chest he can just get to. He feels liberation wash over him then, a sensation like fully spreading open his wings, feels his true form rising. Oh, that's sooo good, he thinks, it's been sooo long. But then- wait- oh no, that's bad. It's enough of a warning that he is venturing into risky territory, and he pulls back. Exchanging bodies is one thing, but doing as angels do... well, an angel and a demon, it could, theoretically, destroy them both.

Beneath him, Crowley is groaning. He's gripping the couch so hard his slender knuckles are whitening.

Aziraphale is terrified he'd lost more control than he thought. "Have I hurt you?" he asks, breathless.

"Wha? No...?"

"Then what is the matter?"

The demon's eyes open. "What's the matter?" he chuckles softly, "You're driving me crazy."

"Oh I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to."

Crowley laughs harder, pulls the angel into his chest. "Not in a bad way. Please don't stop."

Aziraphale pushes himself back up, so they are face to face. "Oh, dear, I really don't think you're ready for-"

"Oh, believe me, I'm definitely ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind words and kudos for the first chapter! I know I can't do a 6,000 year slow burn (I would not survive it literally nor figuratively) but maybe they could burn for a bit longer, hmm? Please tell me what you think!  
> Thanks again to my beta testers!  
> 


	3. (Follow me) I need something sacred from you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have different expectations about what their love should lead to, but maybe they can get on the same page- eventually...

Aziraphale sits up, eyes wide. "But, but... my dear, I mustn't! It could end you!"

Crowley leans forward and ventures his hand across the other's thigh. "Ohhhhh, angel, that's a bit dramatic. But keep talking like that, I think I like it."

"I'm serious," the angel tuts, rolling his eyes, "Look, if you've been reading Milton*... I mean, yes, the thought is attractive, I admit, but it seems fairly risky in our particular case, not knowing the, ah, the effect between... I mean, on the one hand, you were once an angel-"

Crowley cuts him off. "Yeah I do remember how all of _that_ works, I hardly need a manual- though I do wonder how on earth Milton found out about it."

Aziraphale looks guilty. He hadn't _meant_ to have that many sherries that evening. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "But I wasn't talking about that."

Aziraphale looks at him, confused, but now also very sorry he's just admitted to considering the thought of _angelic intimacy_ _with Crowley_ attractive. I mean, it's not like he had imagined them doing that for centuries or anything... Surely it was only a couple of millennia at most that he'd imagined dipping his hardlight fingers into whatever inky depths Crowley's true form might take, shivering in delight at what he might find there. The smoothness of scales, perhaps, a coarse flutter of feathers, or maybe something more mutable, the light of stars, a sweetness like golden honey- _Oh God_.. _. Get it together,_ he screams at himself, trying to shake the white-hot want all over again. But maybe Crowley hasn't noticed, since he wasn't talking about that. Wait... what _was_ he talking about? 

"You weren't?" the angel stammers, going a newer shade of red in the face.

"No." the demon answers blithely. His eyes look up and away like his thoughts have floated up to the ceiling. He leans back into the couch, swinging his knee out in his usual sprawl. 

It is, on his part, firstly a subtle attempt convey his general sexiness- he considered himself a professional in that regard- but also anudgeto suggest that the angel follow what he considered a very short train of thought to a very obvious station. Unfortunately Aziraphale, who is instead at the docks expecting a steamer, misses it entirely. Instead he starts to relax at the gesture, a habit from all of the time they've spent together. Then he realizes that Crowley doesn't intend to elaborate further, and he has no idea what is going on right now. He suddenly feels a little put out, and very foolish.

"Then what," he demands, "are you on about?"

Crowley blinks. For someone who's been on the earth for 6,000 years, the angel's continual capacity for innocence never ceases to amaze him. He starts to laugh at the naivety, but then realizes suddenly that what the angel's question actually means is that _not only_ was the angel _not_ having the same reaction to their snogging, but he was also expecting Crowley to explain _his reaction_. Well, _fuck,_ he thinks, couldn't I just be damned again? Definitely be more fun than spelling out his sexual response, completely ruining his cachet (not to mention the mood, ugh). There's definitely no way he's going to tell him now how many times, and in how many ways, he's imagined them touching... And definitely not how he's moaned the angel's name as he pulled in light strokes up his cock, wishing it was his soft touch instead... nor how long he'd fantasized about using his talented tongue to make the angel beg, to prove that even demons could be merciful. He hides his face in his hands at the very thought of it. After what seems like an eternity (the standard unit of measurement for torture in his occupation) he slides his fingers down his face and huffs out an exasperated sigh.

When he braves to look over, Aziraphale is still sitting there looking petulant, but there is no way Crowley is talking about this sober. He picks up his wine and starts to drink it much faster than the angel would approve. 

"What are you-" the angel blurts, alarmed. First the demon is totally cryptic, and now committing a heinous abuse against this beautiful, more than seven-decade-old fruit of the Pauillac. He really could be such a complete nightmare sometimes.

Crowley holds up a finger as he starts to drain his glass. Then, to Aziraphale's utter astonishment, he refills his glass and starts again.

"Crowley! You can't just-" the angel manages, in horror, before the demon sets down his glass, empty again, and wipes his grape stained lips with the back of his hand. Aziraphale snatches up the bottle to save it in case he goes for it again, and cradles it to his chest like it's a martyr.

The demon leans back again, the punch of the alcohol mercifully resetting his _devil-may-care_ default. At least, outwardly. Internally, to be honest, he was still shitting himself. "I was only suggesting," he shrugs, "that humans may have some interesting ideas to consider at this point."

"Wha...?" the angel trails off, gaping. What did humans have to do with-? His mind races, but when his thoughts happen to light upon a memory involving a certain Mr. Wilde, it suddenly occurs to him a little too graphically what Crowley means. His eyes widen.

"Out of the question!" he says, a little more strongly than he means. "The very idea is preposterous!"

"Is it?" Crowley asks, a little hurt, but also still enjoying watching him make a fuss. He wonders if making an angel squirm like this is technically foreplay for a demon.

"What I mean," Aziraphale says, softening, but not relaxing, "is that we _aren't_ human. We aren't made... We don't need-"

"We don't need sushi, either, angel." Crowley counters, a dark-feather brow high over brazen-gilt eyes.

Aziraphale gets up and paces to his desk, turning his back to the demon so he doesn't have to look at his face, which he's sure is wearing a stupidly smug expression. It was true, after all. But of course sushi isn't quite such an undignified pleasure, whereas sexual relations... Well, he knows how it all works. He'd had to perform some of Crowley's temptations, after all, during the course of the Arrangement. But he'd always approached that as getting a job done, he'd not really bothered to _enjoy_ it.

"My point is," Crowley continues, hiccuping slightly as the wine starts to warm him, "you picked up a taste for sushi when this lot invented it, 'cause it's nice, right? Very imaginative lot, humans. You might be interested to know what else they've put on their menus over the millennia." 

Aziraphale's knees are weak and he slides down into his desk chair, still unable to face him. The stability of the chair is comfort to his body, but not to his reeling mind. What the hell, he thinks, and takes a swig from the bottle, sediment be damned.

"Not like you to close a menu," the demon's voice drifts over, "before even seeing what's on it, 's all I'm saying." 

The angel presses a hand to his face and leans onto the desk. He cannot believe they are having this conversation. Putting aside the embarrassing mechanics, the concept itself has not crossed his mind in at least a century, and he hasn't _made an effort_ , so to speak, for at least that long. Angels hardly needed such encumbrances to get celestial work done. He'd found it ridiculous, really, and now more ridiculously he finds himself wondering if he even remembers it well enough to attempt it. Ugh, but they are so complicated, human genitalia, all those fiddly bits, and far more distracting than they're worth. Had Crowley been thinking about him having that? Wanting him to have that? His better nature throws up alarms at that, and he turns around to the couch then, to dismiss the whole idea. 

"I haven't even," he begins, to explain his lack of apparatus, but when he swings around Crowley is leaning over him, hand on the back of the chair.

"Haven't you? It's not that hard." reassures the demon, misunderstanding.

"Well of course it isn't!" the angel snaps, scandalized, misunderstanding _his_ misunderstanding. He wonders if it is possible to blush himself right out of existence.

Crowley is speechless. _What the fuck does that mean_ , he wonders. Just how much sex had he got up to? Was he boasting? And then, if he's been throwing it around, why does he not want me-? The angel's voice thankfully snaps him back out of his thoughts.

"Anyway, none of the most recent assignments I've covered for you required that I be equipped for such a scenario. And I really find that it gets in the way." he says, matter-of-fact. "You don't mean to tell me that you've been engendering yourself this whole time?" he asks, but immediately wishes he hadn't, because the implication is just too much right now. He takes another swig from the bottle.

Crowley flops back down on the sofa. "Well, now I'm really offended you haven't noticed," he says, trying to keep a straight face.

Aziraphale spits wine all over the front of his trousers and onto the rug, beyond.

After a few moments of tense embarrassment and a minor stain-removing miracle on someone's part, Crowley tries again.

"Maybe not the _whole_ time, but yeah. I mean, 's really just been a practical matter, in my line of work." he explains. "Just got used to it."

"Well I haven't." Aziraphale says, shakily.

"Not even when you were in my body?" the demon chuckles.

"Crowley!"

"Are you telling me you took my body down to hell without-?"

"Of course not, I kept it exactly the way you left it."

"Well now," the demon says, with a wicked smile, "I really _am_ offended you didn't notice."

"I- I didn't..." stammers the angel. Oh, of course he'd noticed, but with their lives on the line he hadn't thought anything more about it than an _okay so this is Crowley's body I'd better move it convincingly_. Now, he admits though, he feels a little stirring in himself, recalling what it felt like to be in that flesh, with that... that _appendage_ there. And, _oh Christ_ , he's starting to think that maybe it _could_ be just a little appealing, as a part of Crowley. He stands up suddenly though, with the realization that the demon had of course been in his body, too.

"Wait, did you... with my body...?"

Crowley lays a hand over his heart. "Not a hair out of place, angel, I promise. Wouldn't dream of it." he says. But he would now, wouldn't he? Dream of it? Save that for later?

Mollified at that, the angel joins him back on the sofa, but he keeps his eyes down, and sighs. This is an enormous amount of information to process for his tired mind. First, he's still right, the union that angels enjoy is probably too risky for the two of them. Also, he's not sure that demons even do that sort of thing with each other. Maybe Crowley is not provisioned for that, as he himself is not, currently, for the suggested human activity. Best not to ask. Then there's the revelation that the demon _is_ prepared for, well, the human endeavour, and further (he thinks with yet another blush, but now also a bit of a smile) that he seems to be interested in sharing that with him. As an alternative to utter annihilation from angelic blending, it could be pleasant, he supposes. Humans did after all, seem to enjoy it, wrote whole books of poetry on the stuff... 

As Aziraphale sits with a faraway look in his eyes, Crowley pulls the bottle out of his hands and puts it back on the table. He thinks maybe he's pushed things a little too far, jeopardized whatever it is they'll have now, needs to smooth out the other's proverbial ruffled feathers. He pulls Aziraphale close again, and when the angel allows it, he plants a soft kiss on the pulse point just under his jaw. He's had thousands of years experience of making do with so much less... being together without having to look over their shoulders is already pretty damn nice. He can burn for ages, anyway, he's made for it. He contemplates for a moment switching to the female set, as it tends to be less wieldy, but it's no less insistent, of course. As for going without, as the angel has done, well if he's honest he actually enjoys the sweet ache he feels, and decides to leave it.

"Sorry, angel," he says, as contrite as he can sound while murmuring into Aziraphale's neck. "It's just a silly idea. Forget I mentioned it."

"Mmmhmmmm..." the angel answers, lost, both in the feeling of those glowing-coal lips, hot on his skin, and the growing realization that he's starting to give the suggestion rather serious consideration, instead.

*I assume if you're this deep into this fandom that you know, but in case you don't, there are lots of angelic activities described in Milton's Paradise Lost, one of them being their version of physical intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, not sorry if I've tortured anyone too terribly with this chapter. You didn't honestly think it would be that easy, did you? ;) Don't worry though, there's more to come.
> 
> Thanks to my beta tester this week for laughing, helping me to improve this and also for suggesting that Crowley was the one who invented lovers asking their partner "what are you thinking about?" while in bed, only to have it come back to bite him. 
> 
> Also if you are enjoying this story and want to feed some other senses, all of my titles are song lyrics and if you find the songs they come from you might enjoy them as a little treat... The alternate title for this chapter was "I'll let you run away (but your heart will not oblige you)" ;)


	4. I lie in an early bed (Thinking late thoughts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now contains artwork gifted to me by the wonderful @CynSyn!!!

Crowley has been sleeping with Aziraphale for the past few weeks. _Sleeping_ sleeping, not that the demon minds much. They've taken turns staying over at each other's places, and though he definitely prefers his stylish minimalism to the rococo confection that the angel calls a bedroom, he's started to feel comfortable enough there to drift off easily. 

Aziraphale isn't much of a sleeper, of course- an undesirable quality in a guard of Eden- but he's definitely not opposed to a cuddle, or to sit quietly with a book while Crowley snoozes. Every now and then he lets in a little exhaustion and takes a light nap, but more often he watches the demon sleep. And sometimes he keeps Crowley awake.

The thing is, demons don't usually touch each other (unless it's to cause harm), and Crowley hadn't dared to touch the angel much before the not-apocalypse, other than the rare instances that their fingers brushed. He feels touch starved, and now that they can indulge themselves a little without the fear of reprisal, a whole new world of potentiality presented itself. This isn't without its own limits though.

Taking Aziraphale to bed is like courting a Victorian lady, Crowley reflects, wearing as he does a set of tartan flannel pajamas that can only be pushed so far to expose the skin underneath. He craves that skin, but knowing that the angel is without the drive that would get him out of his night attire, Crowley spends a lot of time on wrists, and as much forearm as he can access, and sometimes bare foot snuggles. He'd even had the pluck, once, to slip a hand under the pajama top and just inside the waistband of the bottoms, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of the angel's hip. The result of that though, was that he'd had to spend a good half hour laying on his stomach, embarrassingly pushing down his desire before he could fall asleep, so he hadn't done it again.

On the other hand Aziraphale, it seems, finds the buttery softness of the demon's black silk pajamas very nice to touch, and is happy to pet him above them, never mind how he's driving him to distraction. Sometimes the angel's hands seem a little too greedy, slipping over the demon's limbs and torso so relentlessly he can barely stand it. More than once Crowley has the impulse to grab one of those meticulously manicured hands and rut into it, just to get some relief. Or would it be _revenge_ , he wonders, if Aziraphale is torturing him on purpose? 

Tonight, as Aziraphale peers through his reading glasses at a well worn copy of Dame Julian's Revelations, absentmindedly smoothing his free hand over Crowley's shoulders and down his back to the pert firmness of his arse, he is actually doing very important research. Ever since their rather awkward conversation about having intimate relations in the human manner, he'd decided the idea was worth investigating. Of course he's read quite a bit on the matter. Humans are obsessed with the stuff, so there is no end to the materials on offer for study. He'd started off with the mechanics of the thing, but was delighted to find that there were also whole volumes dedicated to the extraction of pleasure from it. Some had illustrations, which didn't really appeal to him all that much, since they were human and not really anything like Crowley or himself, to a being with additional celestial senses. And so he's taken, during their nightly cuddles, to making a mental map of Crowley's body, so he can imagine it instead. 

Of course he'd also had to make an _effort_. Serious study often demands practical application of course, and he wants to do this properly. Unlike Crowley who refashions his form from time to time, the angel hadn't really ever bothered to change the presentation of his body being male, so he decided to go with what made the most sense, if he were human. That didn't make it any easier to get used to, the first few days, but when he's been alone and able to test the genitalia's reaction to stimuli, he has been quite pleased with the result. Perhaps he'd tested it a bit _too_ often, but again this was in the interest of research, which was absolutely necessary, and the soreness didn't usually last long. Aziraphale was a little worried at first that Crowley would notice it before he's done editing it to his liking and ready to properly present it, but the demon had a tendency to kick all the covers to his side of the bed, offering the benefit of extra concealment. Also, he never reaches for what he thinks isn't there, so it is thus far going undetected. Tonight though, with confidence in his creation, and with mounting pressure from the thing itself as he touches Crowley, he considers it might be time to gauge the demon's current level of interest.

* * *

The sign on the door to the bookshop this afternoon says closed, but Crowley ignores it. He turns the knob and slips inside, a bottle of Swiss absinthe in one hand and a bag with a very promising goat cheese tart, still warm, from one of Aziraphale's favourite bakeries, in the other. 

"Oi, angel!" the demon calls out, seeing the desk empty, "Where are you? I've just had the best idea."

After a moment, a sing-songy response floats from the back room. "Back here, dear!"

Smiling, Crowley strolls back and rounds the corner, triumphantly hoisting the absinthe. "Guess what I thought-"

He stops dead then, in his tracks and in his sentence, because standing there in the back room, without a stitch of clothing on, is the angel. He's facing away, but his lovely rounded arse is on full display. Crowley does a double take, wonders if he's somehow gotten the wrong shop.

Aziraphale turns his head slightly and now the demon can see he's got his fingers to his lips, thumb tucked under his chin in contemplation. And then, with another shock, Crowley notices the mirror. The angel is looking at himself in it and tutting, shaking his head.

"Tsk. No that really can't be right, can it?"

_(lovely artwork gift of @Cynsyn <3 )_

Crowley follows the reflection of the angel's face down his sloping shoulders, to his chest, dusted faintly with white blond hair, then over the soft curve of tummy, down to something very... _human_. The demon stands there, his mouth still open and nothing at all coming out, when the bottle slips from his fingers. On the edge of his senses there's a loud smash, then a rising scent of anise and hyssop. 

Aziraphale turns around, snapping his fingers in annoyance and the bottle, intact again, appears on a table. "Honestly, Crowley, you are so clumsy sometimes. You really should be a trifle more careful in here. Some of these things are irreplaceable you know."

Crowley closes his mouth and turns to look confused at his hand, still raised, but now empty.

"Anyway, I'm glad you're here because I've really got to get your opinion on this." the angel says, turning back to the mirror.

The demon lowers his arm with an unintelligible noise that might have been _okay_ , and nods assent. 

"I just really don't think I've got the hang of this. I mean, you've had one for ages, what do you think?" Aziraphale asks, turning back again, then, to face Crowley, jutting his hips forward slightly.

Crowley looks down and then back up again quickly. A soft gurgle is all he can manage to voice, his lips contorting. 

The angel steps closer to him, so he can get a better look. "Look at it," he says, "Is this normal?"

"What, waving it around in the back of your shop?!" the demon blurts, "I don't think so!"

"Be serious, Crowley!" Aziraphale admonishes, "I've spent a long time on this, I want to get it just right." He lifts the cock away from the testicles and cradles it his palm then, holds it up a bit as if that will help the demon see it better, give him a more honest appraisal of his work. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" echoes Crowley, helplessly, refusing now to take his eyes off the angel's face.

"Should I start again?" the angel pouts. "Is it that bad?" His eyes are doing that thing that always makes Crowley soft.

The demon groans internally, knowing he'd better just humour him, or he's never going to hear the end of this. His chin drops down, reluctantly. His brows go up in surprise- it's not bad at all. It's well sculpted, actually- he might have taken cues from Bernini. Unlike his own, it's cut in that crazy trend started by Abraham, but in this case it makes quite a nice effect. It might be the most beautiful penis he's ever seen. (Mind the bar wasn't high, but still).

His mouth twists into an appraising smile, and he nods. "Yeah. S' alright."

"Oh good," the angel sighs, "If you ask me it was always one of the most inelegant design choices, but She must have had her reasons."

Crowley shrugs and nods, tilting his head. That does pretty much sum up what most people would say about dicks. He's wondering if it's rude to keep staring, but can't stop, so is a bit relieved, but also a bit gutted, when Aziraphale starts pulling on his clothes from a neat stack he's left next to a pile of books. 

When he's nearly finished and is nonchalantly tying his bow tie, the angel looks down at the table. "Oh you've brought absinthe, how lovely! Why didn't you say? That will be just the thing, it's been so hot out."

The demon is silent, now wondering if all of this had really just happened.

"Oh and is that Anton's handiwork as well?" the angel says, indicating the bag, still in Crowley's other hand, "His pastry is always divine!" He slips on his coat. "Look, I've already locked up down here, we can take this up to my rooms if that's okay."

Crowley nods and follows, deciding that it definitely hadn't happened, and he is out of his mind.

* * *

They settle in upstairs, Aziraphale neatly arranging the absinthe- a sugar cube perched on a slotted spoon for his glass, but none for the demon, knowing how he takes all of his drinks after all this time. As he adds the ice cold water, it louches handsomely. He rambles on as he goes, but Crowley, still dazed, only picks up parts of it.

"-it's such a lovely hue, doesn't it just remind you of-"

"and then, would you believe, Henri had the nerve to say to me-"

"-so short, and never mind his art- so terribly garish, but of course he was such a wonderful cook, and-"

The angel has pushed a glass of cloudy jade-coloured liquid in front of him, and he sips it mechanically. He'd cut the tart into slices too, and one appears on a plate at Crowley's elbow.

Across the table, Aziraphale takes a delicate bite of tart and hums in appreciation. "Masterful, as always." He takes a sip of the absinthe, then, his pinky ring chiming faintly against the glass. "You know, you're being very quiet, dear. Cat got your tongue?"

Crowley startles. "Are we going to going to talk about what just happened?"

The angel looks at him passively over the rim of his glass. "What do you mean?"

"Well for starters," the demon says, exasperated, "Are you going to tell me why you've suddenly decided to make an effort?"

"Well for you, of course," the angel smiles (wickedly, Crowley thinks), "Wasn't that obvious?"

"But... but.. you said..."

"Listen, dear, if you've changed your mind, I can always just-"

"What?! No, I didn't say that!"

"Well, I am pleased to hear it," the angel says, looking down at the table and bringing his glass to his lips again, "Because I was thinking I might like to see what's on _your_ menu." 

Crowley shoots up, nearly upsetting the table and rattling the dishes. "Come on," he says, holding out his hand.

"But we've only just-" Aziraphale protests.

Crowley downs his drink, and holds his hand out again. "Okay, done, see? Come on."

"Fine," the angel sighs in mock annoyance, "Where are we going then?" He takes his hand.

Crowley glances around at the general frump and dust of the angel's apartments. "Back to my flat. I'm not doing this here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that I didn't get to the really fun part yet, folks, but it's nearly there, I promise. ;)
> 
> I couldn't resist re-tooling a very funny joke from Red Dwarf, that was just begging to be used for this purpose.


	5. Walking on wires and power lines (You put your body on top of mine)

Crowley drives carefully- by his standards anyway- back to his flat. Every cell of him is in a rush, but he also feels like he is transporting something delicate. Which he is, in a way, worrying every second or so that Aziraphale will capriciously decide that this is ridiculous again. He tries, and fails, to think about the act of driving, instead of how much he's just seen of the angel, for the entire time it takes him get to Mayfair (five minutes since he's completely disregarding speed limits). He looks straight ahead as the Bentley purrs along, gripping the steering wheel so hard his nails have curled into the flesh of his palms, but he doesn't notice. He also doesn't notice that, sensing the tension, the car is almost certainly mocking him, offering helpful suggestion in the form of musical accompaniment, Freddie Mercury now crooning _ooh love, ooh loverrrr boyyyy_ while Aziraphale blushes. 

The angel, for once (and probably the last time) doesn't care how fast the demon is driving because he's paying no attention whatsoever to what's happening through the windscreen. He can't stop looking at Crowley and he's grinning so much his cheeks are starting to hurt, giddy at the prospect of what awaits, but also doubly pleased with himself because of the effect he's managed to have, as well as the speed of Crowley's reaction. I mean, he might have considered it even more of a win if they'd never made it out of the back room, but to be fair there is perhaps something to be said about the state of shock he'd provoked that prevented that from being the case. And of course, given the fact that they are relocating back to Crowley's place, perhaps the demon simply feels more comfortable being in his home territory. He's perfectly happy to make that concession, and honestly it does mean that no books are at risk should anything get too out of control.

When they arrive Crowley hurries the angel inside, and drags him down the hall before they can linger near the sculpture of evil triumphing, feeling more than his face burning at the implication. Drawing Aziraphale into the shaded repose of his sparse bedroom, he pulls the angel against himself in a way he hadn't risked before for fear of self-immolation. He grinds into him, the shock of their hips meeting, their half hard erections pressing together, eliciting a little gasp from the angel. He kisses him equally hard, and the temperature between them climbs so fast that Crowley feels more pressure than he can take now. He lets go suddenly and Aziraphale, who was thoroughly enjoying himself and expecting a bit more in the way of a preamble to the separation, stumbles back a bit. 

Crowley starts pulling off his shoes and throwing them haphazardly to the floor. "Listen, angel, you don't have to be totally undressed for this, but if you're worried about ruining that coat you might want to take it off."

"Good heavens, Crowley, you're so very unromantic."

The demon, who has already thrown his jacket to the floor with his boots, and is hurriedly unbuttoning his waistcoat, shrugs. "I've got other skills."

Aziraphale smiles sheepishly at the thought, as he carefully removes his coat. He sits on the corner of the bed to untie his shoes and slips them off. As he pulls off his socks and rolls them neatly, he looks up to see Crowley is now sporting only his trousers and dark glasses. He's circling the angel like he sometimes does, but now he's looking every inch the wily adversary, Aziraphale realizes with a sudden trepidation. 

"Crowley, I have to ask you a question," he says, shakily.

"If it's whether that bow tie does anything for me, it doesn't, but you can leave it on if you like."

"I'm being serious," the angel swallows, "And don't lie to me. Have you been tempting me, this whole time? Into this?"

Crowley smirks, but when he pulls off his sunglasses his eyes are gentle. "No... do you really think it would have worked if I had?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale says, considering this, then relaxes. "So you haven't been? You promise?"

Crowley's smile is now light-hearted. He lays a sincere hand on his chest. "Angel, I'm definitely off the clock, I can assure you that your soul isn't in mortal danger. I think maybe... you just _like_ me."

"Well maybe a little," Aziraphale laughs, unhooking the chain of his watch.

"Anyway," the demon continues, unbuttoning his fly, "I could ask the same of you, y'know. Just because you're capable of using the tools of my trade doesn't mean you should. It wasn't very angelic."

"I am sure I don't know what you're talking about," says the angel, unrepentant as he unbuttons his waistcoat. 

Opposite him, Crowley tries to get his trousers off with such haste that his cock springs free with a comedic bounce and he nearly falls over the legs of them. 

The angel casually extracts his cuff links, and as he moves on to pulling apart his bow tie, he glances over at Crowley who's standing there with his arms crossed, now naked and visibly impatient. Seeing him undressed like this for the first time makes Aziraphale's nerves hum- and he stops to appreciate for a moment those slender shoulders and that lean, hard chest. He starts to sweat a bit as his gaze sweeps down, though, to the beauty of that sinewy torso, those sharp cut hips, and feels his pulse quicken as he takes in the demon's glorious cock. It's flushed dark with excitement and, the angel observes, feeling his own tingle in response, it seems very... _big_. He wonders suddenly if he's bitten off more than he can chew. Wonders, for that matter, how on earth Crowley wears such tight trousers. He wanted to play this cool, but that ship has sailed, and he finds himself staring and gulping as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. He looks down to figure out why one of the buttons isn't coming free and suddenly Crowley is only inches away, aforementioned parts no less intimidating close up. Aziraphale freezes.

"Need a hand?" the demon asks. He wants to rip the shirt off of him, imagines sending the buttons flying everywhere, but decides he'd best behave for now.

The angel can only nod as Crowley pulls him up to standing. The demon deftly finishes the shirt buttons and makes quick work of the trousers and under-things, revealing for the second time today that body he's wanted to touch for so many centuries, and this time he does touch it. And kisses it. Aziraphale's knees are weak, he feels overwhelmed and is grateful that Crowley now takes the lead guiding him to the satiny black expanse of the bed. The demon takes his mouth with his, and they alight there kissing for a moment, pale against the dark of the room, binary stars in the dark emptiness of space. 

Crowley eases Aziraphale gently onto his back, then kneeling between his legs, runs a hand down the angel's body, lightly squeezing the pliant softness as he goes. He smiles then, because he loves the hell out of this angel, but also because the bastard has been teasing him for too long, and it is definitely time for payback. He slides down the bed and gets to work. 

Aziraphale holds his breath and looks down tentatively at the serpentine tongue that's started winding its way down and around his cock, at those gold slit-pupil eyes gleaming behind it. It's a much more demonic display than he was expecting, and he lets his head fall quickly back into the pillows with a soft thump.

"Good lord... tell me again why I agreed to-" 

The rest of the question goes unasked as he feels the demon's hot wet mouth close over him. It is all he can do to breathe with the sensation for a few moments. When his voice emerges it is deep, and his breath heavy.

"Yes... I suppose that... that could be... a convincing argument."

Crowley responds with a humming "Mmmmhmmm" which sends the angel back into into insensibility again.

Aziraphale moans and the demon smiles internally, his lips being otherwise occupied. His tongue can do really weird things, but it can do _good_ weird things, if the angel's writhing is any indication. He feels a hand in his hair suddenly, and then a clench of fingers, not pulling his head back, but pushing it in. He's grateful then, that he can swallow like a snake (and suspend the need to breathe) as the angel bucks his hips upward at the same time. 

Aziraphale is holding on for dear life. He'd given himself quite pleasurable feelings trying out his new manifestation, of course, but this is exponentially more electrifying. Something is mounting fast and he finds himself struggling to push it down. It just won't do. He prides himself on taking his time with his pleasures- he always saves room for dessert, after all. So he concentrates on doing his best to last longer than his body is currently suggesting that he will. He knows for sure though that if he looks down again and sees his shaft sinking into Crowley's bobbing open mouth, it will be all over, so he keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

Crowley can tell from the angel's body language that he has lost all control, and he knows there were two ways he can play this. He could be merciful, and give the poor angel some time to climb back down, or he could add another element and see what he's really made of. The second option is much more his style, he decides, and he nudges Aziraphale's knee over a few inches to give himself more space to work. While keeping up the pace with his mouth, he presses a finger at the angel's opening, and pausing to imagine some lubrication to make things easier, he pushes it in. As he curls it, Aziraphale nearly rises off the bed.

Angels are made of sturdy stuff, of course, but this one doubted that any other principality had been subjected to such an onslaught. It's too too much, and just in time he summons enough coherence to snap his fingers, to bring the sensation of his nerve endings down a notch. Crowley, from his higher vantage point, can see him do it. He pulls off of the angel's cock with a sucking sound.

"You're cheating!" he accuses.

"No I'm not!" the angel laughs weakly.

"You are!" the demon says, with mock offense. "Humans definitely don't do that."

"And humans," Aziraphale says, opening one eye to look at him, "definitely can't do that with their tongues.

Crowley concedes him that point as fair, but can't let him get away with it entirely. "Well if you want to throw away all my hard work like that, it's up to you, but I think I deserve _some_ reward, don't you?"

Aziraphale raises himself slightly on one elbow. "Oh, would you like me to-"

"I'd like you," the demon says, eyes flashing, "to lie back and look angelic."

Another finger joins the first and the angel sinks back down with a grown, his eyes now swimming under closed lids.

Crowley had already been hard before, but seeing Aziraphale spread out so wantonly before him makes him feel like he might split his skin. He leans forward, kissing him, while introducing a third finger and stroking. "Open up a little more for me." 

Aziraphale feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck and lets all of his breath out in a slow sigh. "Yes, my dear," he says dreamily, and licks his lips, "I'm ready for you."

The demon groans. _Shit,_ how was he _harder_ now? He withdraws his fingers and Aziraphale arches up into him, needing more. Crowley is only too happy to oblige. His hand feels jumpy as he presses the red hot brand of his desire against the angel and eases himself in a little, gasping as the first wave of pleasure hits them both.

" _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ ," he swears, under his breath.

He'd imagined a lot of things in his lonely nights but none of them are as good as the real thing, it turns out. This surely profane penetration feels sacred, like he's somehow entered heaven. He rocks, as gently as he has the patience for, until he's all the way in. Underneath him, Aziraphale is panting, his still obvious arousal twitching on his abdomen. Crowley eases out a bit, and gives his first good thrust.

The angel makes then what might have been called in celestial terms a joyful noise, if one had to describe the indescribable. It was at once, full of reverent worship, but also a complete disregard for Crowley's neighbours. And it was for him- because of him. The impossibility of such a reward for the fallen catches him completely off guard, and he feels his defenses disintegrate as he rushes out to claim it. He thrusts again, his heart overwhelmed by the angel's delight, but the physical need of six thousand years nowhere near satisfied. He wants to fuck Aziraphale senseless, love him till he is senseless himself. His pace starts picking up.

Beneath him, Aziraphale is getting pounded mercilessly now, but he is hardly wanting it to stop. It's a symphony of sensation, and his reading material was definitely not adequately descriptive enough to prepare him for it. He surprises himself, though, wanting it as hard and fast as the demon is giving it to him, maybe more. But he has regained a modicum of control, thankfully, because otherwise this definitely would have done him in, brought about that petite mort. He digs his fingers into Crowley's back, feeling like a sailor clinging to the mast in the midst of a storm.

Crowley is quickly getting to the point where it's too late to pull back. It's too much, feeling himself inside of Aziraphale, feeling the angel clenching around him, blazing-hot, and taking every inch of him. Paradoxically, perhaps, it makes him feel more angelic than he has in a long time, a contact high, and though that comes with a twinge of bitterness about his fall, it's only for a second. He still doesn't want forgiveness, but he'll take something that feels like it here at Aziraphale's hands. He has the sensation of running headlong over a cliff, _but it's okay 'cause they have wings, right_?

Crowley cries out the angel's name as he comes, hips stuttering, and Aziraphale catches him, as his arms fail and he falls. For a while, neither of them wants to move, so they cling to each other, hearts drumming, Aziraphale kissing as much of Crowley as he can get to. When he's finally able to let go, the demon rolls off of the angel with a sigh. He looks up at the ceiling, wishing that somehow the roof were gone and the sun chased away, so they could be naked to the black sky above and to the stars that burned with a fire he'd set. He wants to show him the best thing he's ever done, show the angel he's worthy of what he just gave him. He reaches out and grasps Aziraphale's hand. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath in and out again as they lay there, hand in hand. He is sticky, and bathed in sweat, and so full of love. He's also amazingly managed to hold out his own pleasure through all of that, and wonders if it's within etiquette to ask for more at this point. He rolls to his side and kisses the demon gently. Surely he's been such a good angel, letting Crowley have right-of-way, he wouldn't possibly deny him a riposte. He reaches out and trails a gentle hand down the side of the demon's face, puts on the sweet eyes that always makes him give in.

"Could I have you," he whispers, "as you were in Golgotha? Do you remember it?"

He can't put it into words exactly why he wants Crowley in that form, but perhaps he's craving tenderness, and that was the most tender he'd ever seen the demon. Just because the angel had to go along with heaven's directives didn't mean it hadn't hurt, and Crowley's presence that evening as the sun retreated and they'd walked away from that tragedy had been the only thing he'd found strength in, that night. It was also one of the first times he'd felt alone, when they parted ways.

The demon blinks at him, then nods with a half smile. He snaps his fingers weakly, but it is enough. 

Of course, Aziraphale never saw that body like this, no abaya or headscarf, the long tumult of curls spread out among the pillows. The long leanness is still there, but now a subtle softness too. The angel runs a hand down the demon's delicate throat, and over the slight swelling of his breasts. He leans down to kiss one and Crowley's eyes flutter closed. His hand continues gently then, over the small rise of abdomen, across the slight widening of the hips, and down to the sprouting of red hair where his thighs meet, glowing like a flame in the dip of pale skin. Aziraphale slides a finger down the cleft of it, and the demon shudders with a gasp. His body is mutable, but he's still the same being, and sensitive from his recent release. 

The angel slides down the bed, the sheets now a tangled mess, and pushes Crowley's thighs apart, seating himself between them. He trails kisses, slow and deliberate from the inside of one knee all the way up the thigh, and then pauses to take in the scent of him. It is like no perfume he'd ever been adorned with, sweet like a lily, but also spicy and earthy. The tender folds, dark pink like an overripe fig are already wet with want, and he dares then his tongue across them. He hums, finding the taste delicate and pleasing.

"Oh my dear, you're delicious. Did you know?"

Crowley can't reply. He throws an arm across his eyes and lays there panting as the angel starts lapping at his pussy in earnest, a deep, messy kiss. He grabs a handful of the angel's white blonde curls, whimpering as that tongue torments his already hard and over-sensitized clit. He feels an ache in the hollows of his hips, wants more, needs to be filled.

It's not that Aziraphale isn't enjoying watching Crowley arch and moan so beautifully, but after a few minutes of indulging in this manna his erection is getting quite insistent, and the feel of the velvet warmth beneath his plunging tongue is quickly reminding him what he really wants a taste of. He stops, gently prizing the demon's hand from his hair, and wipes his glistening chin with the back of his hand. Pulling himself up to kneeling, as to an altar, he makes one more survey of Crowley's body with his hands and eyes. The nipples, pointing upward from the rise of his breasts are hard now, his chest flushed a deep cerise. The angel's thumbs find no purchase as they glide over the rib cage and stomach, all slick with sweat.

If Aziraphale says anything now, Crowley doesn't know. His ears are ringing with the blood pressure pounding of his heart. He pulls his knees open, raises his hips with a sigh to offer this fruit, not of knowledge but of love, his hands knotted in the sheets. 

The angel is so hard now it's starting to ache, and he's happy to accept this invitation. He holds his cock outside the petals of that slick-shining lotus, and putting his other hand on Crowley's waist, he pushes slowly. Once in, but only just, he pauses to savor it. After a breath, or maybe two, he inches forward again in sweet agony, and stops a second time. He closes his eyes and sighs appreciatively.

Aziraphale is only half his length in, and Crowley's body is infuriated with need. _Why the hell is he going so slow_? He wraps his legs around the angel's back and pulls him in, until he's penetrated fully, and gasps at the pleasure of it. The being in that body is still one of the host of heaven, and he can feel it, can feel the raw power that could vanquish him any time if it chose to. He couldn't fight it right now if it did.

Aziraphale steadies himself with his hands on the bed and pulls back. "Darling," he rumbles low, "I rather think that it's my turn to set the pace, don't you?"

Crowley moans at that, his legs slackening and falling open again. _Bastard_.

The angel pulls out almost all of the way, and leisurely enters him again. Buried deep, he stays there for a moment, his back arched, and shivering at the pleasure of it. He continues long, slow strokes for several minutes, savoring the soft crush of warmth surrounding him, holding fast. The angel looks down at the demon and knows suddenly that even if this simple body in any of its manifestations were Crowley's only true form, he wouldn't be disappointed. He's in love, in all of its varieties.

Crowley is beneath him wavering between insensibility at the feeling of it, and desperation to flip the angel on his back, so he could be on top and get this job done properly. The demon can feel his orgasm hovering, his body pleading for the speed it will take to rip it out of him. 

Aziraphale leans in. "Crowley, look at me," he commands, sounding every bit a principality.

Compelled, the demon opens his eyes and looks at the angel. He is flushed and beaded with sweat. A drop of it has run down and collected on the tip of his nose. His pupils are blown wide, only the barest sliver of silvery blue still visible, the event horizon around a black hole. His bottom lip quivers as he sucks in a breath. He thrusts again, slowly, but keeps his eyes locked on Crowley's- the windows of their souls open to each other.

"I think now is the part," he says, his breath ragged, "Where I tell you-"

He thrusts again, and sighs, blinking slowly but eyes still trained on the demon's, "-that I love you."

He gulps, and plunges again, a little faster. "This is so much _more_ than I expected-"

He moans, pulling back, "-and you are _so good_ -" he breathes, slamming in with considerable force this time.

Crowley can't think. He's made so many wary ellipses of this angel since the Arrangement started, and all that circling has led to this- this tight, hot, desperate ringing. He buries his face in the angel's shoulder now as the cascade of his orgasms hit, grabs on to him hard enough that there will be marks later.

The sudden tensing and gush of heat from the demon's climax breaks any concentration Aziraphale had managed to scrap. He lets go and ruts wildly now, bellowing, his arms shaking with exertion. He'd practiced with climaxing before these last few weeks but none of those solo experiments have prepared him for this. He heaves into his own throes then, with his true form just on the edge of being, a contraction in his body- and the squeezing shut of ten thousand eyes- as he comes. He nearly cries out the name of the almighty before stopping himself and turning it into a simple, but no less expressive, _YES_. They move together then, quaking, to a still, a collection of parts with one purpose- to ease the ache of so many millennia. Aziraphale is putting off so much love Crowley can feel it flowing over them like a waterfall.

As their heartbeats finally descend and their breaths shallow, Crowley realizes that the angel, endearingly and annoyingly, has a literal afterglow. 

"Did you just try to-?" he starts to ask, amused.

Aziraphale tumbles off of him, smiling to the ceiling. "Not enough to destroy us," he admits, "But as much as I thought heaven would allow."

Crowley laughs. "Heaven wouldn't have allowed any of this."

"No. But She did." Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley can't say anything to that. He lays there, feeling small in the sea of black sheets, but not alone, with this bright light so close beside him, but also in him. Their duality breached for a moment, the wounds he's been carrying feel less deep, and he embraces the bigger truth of their unity. They were once the same force, the same power, unassigned to sides or even beings, and he can almost remember it before the feeling slips away. Sighing, he snaps his fingers to clean up the mess of their bodies and return his to its usual form.

"Well I guess," the angel concedes then, "for once you had a good idea."

The demon's brows raise at that one, but he's feeling too permissive to take the bait. "For once." he agrees, grinning.

"Do you know, all this has made me a bit peckish," Aziraphale says, turning to Crowley, "Are you in any state to go out, or should we just get a takeaway?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this has been so much fun. I hope you all enjoy it and it was worth the wait.  
> I feel like I left it all on the field with this one, now if you'll excuse me I have some very urgent needs to attend to. LOL
> 
> As always, I had to do a bit of sketching too, you can see the one for this chapter on my tumblr:  
> https://mielpetite.tumblr.com/post/187222396482/oh-dear-it-seems-the-demon-has-stepped-out-of-my

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic, please be gentle! I hope to do more though, so please make some noise and let me know how I'm doing so far! 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta testers for their support!


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